


Winter Dahlia

by margaerystark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 12:39:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/margaerystark/pseuds/margaerystark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Tyrell isn't flighty or irrational. A Tyrell does not make decisions on a whim or pass judgment after one encounter. They like to learn about people – their histories, their backgrounds, their stories. They grow to respect, trust, and love others with time. This is how Robb Stark took her off guard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red

He kisses her fervently - once, twice, a third time. She will not let him kiss her a fourth time; he should have left already.  _You have won three battles, my love, but what are the odds on winning a fourth?_ He frowns when she pulls away, his eyes falling to the ground, his heart heavy. "Go, win, and come back to me," she urges, so strong, so proud, so sure. It's only when he turns away that her resolve crumbles.

When she was younger, her favourite flower was the scarlet dahlia that grew in the bright sunlight in the gardens of her home. At first there was only one, and she was told that it came from far, far away - from Vaes Dothrak where the  _dosh khaleen_  grew them. The solitary flower had made the long journey in a boat across the vast sea, and she thought it was the bravest flower in all of Highgarden.  _Plants don't have feelings, sister._ Loras would tease her, but he could have his silly roses any day. Her flower bloomed, spreading its red-orange petals towards the sky, and in the following spring it was surrounded by buds of its own kind.

She can spot him from across the way, his auburn hair bright against the cold, white sky. His fur coat is draped around her shoulders, heavy and warm. She hasn't worn her own since he left four months ago. Her belly is soft and rounded, her breasts swollen and tender, but he will not be able to tell until she removes her winter clothing in the confines of their room near a warming fire. But as he rides closer, his band of surviving men following in his wake, she sees an angry gash on his forehead and a trickle of blood running down his face. She knows then that there are far more important matters than what she is hiding under her cloaks.

In Highgarden, there weren't just pretty flowers to admire and pick and smell. There was also an herb garden filled with medicinal plants. While her brothers were off flinging sharpened sticks at potato sacks and fighting each other with wooden swords, Margaery was taught the ways of a healer. She learned which plants soothed burns and dulled headaches and cured stomach pains. She learned how to grind the yeasty ones with a pestle and mortar, how to extract the utmost amount of juice from a leaf, and how to combine the effects of one plant with another to create a new cure.  _There is war all around us, child. But among the death and destruction, there is restoration and renewal,_ her septa told her.

His eyes begin to droop, his fingers clutching the blankets of their bed with one hand. She is holding the other. "Do not fall asleep, my love, or Death will have every right to take you." She lies. Death cannot take her husband, not now. She will fight It until her last breath. She kisses his brow, the taste of copper blood on her lips. It was she who fell into his arms at first – a courageous man who declared himself king after losing his father to the lions – but now he is falling into hers.

Garlan used to jestingly chase her around the gardens and she would hide in the shady alcoves of the castle, waiting for Willas to come and rescue her. She would pretend he was off at war, swooping in to save her village from pillage and plunder at the last second.  _I'm here!_ He would find her in the shadows and sweep her off her feet to place her on his hip, poking Garlan in the gut with his wooden sword.  _Your prince is here!_ He would set her down and go after his younger brother, their laughter bouncing off the castle walls. She would watch them, a smile on her face, only fading when she thought,  _but where is my king?_

She stays awake with him all night, even when he clings to her hand and begs for sleep. It's only when dawn breaks that she lets him rest, his eyes closing gratefully while she strokes his cheek, softly humming the tune to a song she heard when she was a girl. She throws off her cloak and nestles in beside her husband, the swell of her belly pressed against his side. Freckles dot his arms like stars clutter the skies, and he smiles in his sleep; he will not dream of war tonight. "I hope he has your hair," she murmurs, running her hand along her stomach before letting sleep overwhelm her as well.

A Tyrell isn't flighty or irrational. A Tyrell does not make decisions on a whim or pass judgment after one encounter. They like to learn about people – their histories, their backgrounds, their stories. They grow to respect, trust, and love others with time. This is how Robb Stark took her off guard. Loving him was not a gradual process. He stormed into her camp in the middle of the night, his face caked in earth and sweat, a beast almost the size of his horse by his side. He negotiated with her late husband, talking of duty and war as if he had been fighting his whole life. He spoke of his father and didn't pause to brush his tears away. The bards in Highgarden had sung verses of pounding hearts and overpowering spells of adoration, and she had thought them fools until then.

He stirs before her, and she wakes to soft kisses on her belly, her heart fluttering like it had on the night she met him. She laughs quietly, her fingertips brushing over his scalp. He lifts his head so his eyes meet hers, and a smile lights up his entire face before he presses his lips to hers. She wonders how she lived four months without this – his warm skin against hers, his beard tickling her chin. He pulls away, a glimmer of wonderment flickering across his face, and she sees the young man whose tears glittered in the moonlight not so long ago. "We'll name him Eddard," she says, welcoming Robb into her arms again.

 


	2. Black

_8 Months Prior_

The winter dances around their fire, the icy air is filled with an eerie silence which differs from the shouts and cries and sounds she has heard all day. Robb Stark took his third victory today, but in the midst of triumph came defeat; they returned with her husband tethered to a wooden board, his eyes closed in an eternal sleep.

And now the night engulfs her, and she has had a bit too much to drink, and the war still rushes around them, even if their men aren't fighting right now. She sits on a log next to the man who led her late husband into battle today, and the only words they've exchanged are those of condolences and reassurances that his death was no one's fault but the enemy.

She speaks up, aware that her future is spiraling in a direction she hadn't fully prepared for. "Renly is dead, and my brother will wear black until Death comes to take him too."

Robb contemplates her words for a moment. "And you?"

"I must find a man who will clothe me in white again. Maybe this one won't be afraid to put a child in me." She says this with confidence, though her cheeks glow a brilliant shade of red anyway. She turns her gaze upon the swirling fire and shivers, drawing her cloak around her shoulders.

"Why, my lady, must you find someone to wed you so quickly?"

"Oh, my dear Robb, you are so good at the game of war, yet you know not of how to play the game of thrones. I hope the Frey girl has knowledge of this sort of thing for your sake."

His brow furrows in either insult or thought, but when he speaks she knows it's the latter. "How am I to wed someone I have never met? I will not cast my eyes upon her until our wedding day, and then she will not grace my sight again until the war is over."

"Your lady mother had to marry Lord Eddard with nothing but hope in her heart. And I, with Renly. As it is with every maiden who holds any sort of title to her name. We do not get the pleasure of marrying for love. That might come later if we're lucky."

"Who will you hope to love next, my lady?"

She looks at him, her stare unwavering. "No one. My heart is already filled."

He glances down towards the ground which offers him relief from her intense gaze. She cannot trust that her words mean anything of significance to him; sometimes she fears the only way to grab hold of his attention is by smacking him with a sword.

In the distance, the sound of a pipe drifts through the air, and soon it is joined by a collection of voices and the words to a song she does not know. It is neither happy nor sad; she does not know if it is in celebration of their victory or in mourning of their loss. But it reminds her of home – of bards and harps and fiddlers, of deep, soothing voices and dancing flowers in the breeze. Perhaps this is why she never liked the silence; she would sooner hear the croon of a dog or the clang of two swords than nothing at all. Her life was filled with music before she came to this foreign place.

"Do they sing much in Winterfell?" she asks, staring at the fire rather than her companion.

He lets out a gentle laugh and she is filled with warmth. He heats her cold blood that she worried had turned to ice already. "Not unless we had a reason," he replies. "My sister had a lovely voice. I wish I could hear it again."

"You will," she reassures him.

"And in Highgarden?"

Her laugh matches his. "A reason was scarcely needed, your grace. Music flooded the castle and we danced – my brothers and I."

"Are you any good?"

"There is too much wine in your belly, Robb," she jests, shaking her head in amusement.

"And yet not enough in my head, my flower. You must show me your dancing one day."

"One day," she repeats, sounding more like a crow than she wishes to.

"Not to a song that's played for a dying man or one that supposed to encourage the men to march into war. It will be a song for  _us._ The bards will write of us, you know – of the wolf and the rose and how the southern air warmed winter – and every lord and lady will shake with envy at our story, for they will never come to know a friendship like ours."

Suddenly her drink seems too heavy in her stomach, her mind too hazy, dizzying with a rush of emotion and a man she never believed could weave such words. It shouldn't have surprised her; someone who can convince others to follow him into war should be able to speak in splendor. "You talk of madness, Robb Stark," she says softly, her face warm with heat.

"Who is it that has filled your heart, Margaery?" he asks, unexpectedly fierce. "You'll tell me most everything, but you have not spoken of love until tonight. Is it someone from your home whom you have been missing since you were a girl? Is it your noble husband that we lost in battle today?"

She shivers, but not from the cold. "I loved Renly… just not in the same way that I love you."

And then his lips are on hers and it seems all the air has left her lungs, her head spinning with delight. She kisses him back, dropping her hands from the cloak she has drawn around her to touch his face, his neck, his heart. "Robb," she breathes out, finding a moment to break from him. "Robb, my wolf, my king, my love…" He looks at her with wearied eyes as if he knows which words will come next, which he very well might.

"The Frey girl."

* * *

She holds her head high as she walks into the castle of The Late Lord Frey, the heels of her shoes clicking on the stone floor. Loras made the journey to The Twins with her; he did not ask many questions, but any mention of The Young Wolf brought a small smile to his face. She gives a slight curtsy to the old man sitting in his black oak throne, clutching the arms of the chair with his gray hands.

"I trust you received my raven?" She asks not for an answer but to enlighten Walder Frey; she is not here for idle conversation.

"Yes, yes," he mutters, waving an arm as if to dismiss her. "I do not understand why Robb Stark wishes to reject the offer to take one of my daughters or granddaughters for a wife. Or why he sent his delicate flower to come bargain  _for_ him."

She stands her ground. "He did not send me. I came of my own accord to argue for a deal that will benefit you far more than a Stark-Frey marriage."

Frey squints his eyes closed and clenches his jaw. "Speak up, girl, and make it quick."

"As you may have noticed, your men seem to be fairing very well in battle. The Stark bannermen dwindle in number, but the Frey men have not been burdened by this war. You have many capable boys that could be out fighting, but they stay in the safety of this castle with their sisters while others are out risking their lives for the betterment of the north. The King of Winter is prepared to position your men on the frontlines and commission your boys for war."

The old man hisses, spit flying from between the few teeth he has left. "That boy is as much a king as I am."

Her eyes narrow. "That  _boy_ commands your army and has three victories to his name."

"What do you know? You're just a silly girl playing at a man's game."

"My brother, Ser Loras, is just outside. Would you like me to bring him in and have  _him_  tell you exactly what I've been trying to say?"

Frey goes silent, and she knows this is her moment to strike.

"Of course, there are far grander things that will come to you if you agree to abide by my terms. When Robb has won the war - and he  _will –_ he'll be appointing all knew knights and lords. Your daughters will have the pick of the lot, and you will have all the wealth you've ever desired."

He nods his head, a wide smile growing on his weathered face; she knows she has won.

"And what will become of the Stark boy? He'll find few women as… impressionable as my daughters."

"Save your pity for a poor soul who needs it and don't pretend to care about Robb." She raises her eyebrows, a smile itching at the corners of her lips. "Good day, Lord Frey."

She turns and walks towards the doors where her brother will be awaiting her return, but a crackling voice halts her steps.

"Be careful, girl. Love will be your greatest weakness."

She thinks of Lady Catelyn's eyes that only shine when she talks of her late husband, of her steel-plated heart that beats with strength because she has something worth fighting for. She thinks of her brother and how he smiled when Renly was in the same room, how he draws his sword in the Baratheon name. She thinks of Robb's red hair, his freckly arms, his laugh that infects her, his soft lips on hers.

"You're wrong, Lord Frey," she says. "It will be my greatest strength."

 


	3. White

With Robb, it is the small things – how his hand finds hers under the table while they are dining, how his breath tickles her neck when he leans into whisper sweet words in her ear, how he finds moments to steal away and spend with her.

She is consumed with love and a happiness she never believed he could feel, especially not in the midst of conflict.

Sometimes she catches Lady Catelyn casting a weary glance in her direction, though she does not know exactly why. Perhaps she is fearful that the Lord Frey will not keep his contract or maybe worried about her son being distracted from his warring duties.

But after Robb's third victory, there isn't much of a war to lose sleep about. Tywin's army had taken a huge blow, and he was forced to fall back and recuperate and regroup before losing all of the men he had. While there was a lull in bloodshed, the forces of the north had returned to strategizing, though there seemed to be much more celebration than planning.

Their wedding is arranged only a month after Renly's death. She has little time to send word to her family that she will be taking a new husband, but when they hear the news they send her a raven requesting her and Robb's presence in Highgarden.

The Tyrells had never paid mind to the Starks before. They were always pushing Loras and her towards the Baratheons – towards the Iron Throne. But she will give them every reason to believe that a wolf will be sitting on it at the end of the war rather than a stag – her wolf.

Now she sits in a chair in a dark tent, staring at the ground as Lady Catelyn threads white flowers through her hair.

She hadn't expected the gracious invitation from the older woman; they had very few prior conversations up until now, and they are quiet still as they prepare for the ceremony that will bring about a great change to both of their lives.

"Did Robb tell you we're to visit Highgarden?" she speaks up softly, and she feels Catelyn's fingers clench around her hair.

"Yes," Catelyn responds simply, finishing her work in silence.

She turns towards the woman who will be her future mother-in-law in only a few hours time. "Come with us? You must miss the south and the warmth."

Catelyn gives a small, sad smile. "My heart belongs to the north now," she says, and makes to leave.

"Are you worried, my lady? That I am not fit for your son? That I will turn him into a summer flower and he will not be able to face the winter winds anymore?" Her words are met with nothing but a cold shoulder. She presses on. "I love him with everything in me, as I never imagined I could love a person. He fills me with life yet takes my breath away. I will not abandon the north because it is my husband's home, and so it will become mine."

For a few moments, all that can be heard is the cawing of ravens outside before Catelyn speaks. "If you are to ever lose him… don't let the grief overtake you."

She leaves the tent.

The wedding ceremony lasts well into the night. There is plenty of food, wine, laughter to go around. It all seems strangely surreal to her. She never thought she would grow to love someone and then become their wife.

Robb looks at her with shining blue eyes and a wide smile. They dance – everyone dances – and partners are changed as they circle around the room, but not once do his eyes leave hers.

It's a long while before either can sneak out of the festivities, but she manages to dart out of the main tent just five minutes after she sees him go.

She finds him on his back, on his bed, his eyes cast upwards towards the ceiling and his arms behind his head. His stomach rises as he breathes in; she is taken aback as the startlingly similar image of a nervous Renly on their wedding night appears in her mind.

She treads softly on tiptoe towards him, taking him by surprise as her weight presses down on the bed and she rolls into his body.

"You look very handsome," she declares, tracing a finger along his shaven jaw-line. He looks so much younger without his beard, but she likes when she can see his dimples.

"Only tonight?" he jests, turning in to her, a smirk on his lips. His eyes dance up and down over her face as if he doesn't believe she is there beside him.

"Would I have married you if you only looked well one day out of the year? I'd grow tired of gazing upon a face I do not favour," she shoots back, sliding a leg between his.

He tenses immediately at her actions, and she tilts her head in confusion when his eyes flicker downwards, away from hers.

"You are always handsome, dear husband," she speaks, thinking she must have offended him. He responds with a weak grin which she promptly decides to kiss.

She nearly breathes a sigh of relief into his mouth when he responds with enthusiasm; she had feared that she had once again married someone who was unwilling to return her affections.

But as her hands move down his chest, he pulls away, looking apprehensive, and for a moment she sees panic flash across his face. It's then that she knows.

"Do you mean to tell me that Theon Greyjoy taught you nothing in the nine years you spent together?" she asks, pursing her lips. "Surely Winterfell has its fair share of whores? Or perhaps it's too cold there for their unclothed bodies."

Robb surveys the ceiling, his face a mess of embarrassment and disgrace. She immediately regrets her words and changes her tactic.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of, my love."

"You say that now, but you'll be singing a different tune when we're done here," he blurts out, his brow furrowing, his voice low.

"I'm quite certain that you're mistaken. I have no one to compare you to."

His head whips round to look at her, bewildered. "But-"

"It's far easier to exude confidence than to actually be confident," she says slowly, her eyelashes fluttering as she looks at him. Oftentimes she forgets that she does not have to pretend with Robb. She does not have to put on an act to make him love or respect her. She will never need to.

"With Renly… Nothing…" He struggles to find words, though she knows just what he is thinking.

"It does not bode well to speak of dead husbands in the bedroom," she chides, prompting a strangled chuckle from her bedmate.

"You always have the most wonderfully horrible things to say." His voice is full of affection.

She isn't sure whether to smile or frown. "Stop stalling," she protests, her hands working on getting his shirt off.

"Alright, alright!" He holds up his hands in surrender before moving them to hers, helping her pull the material up over his head. Still, his eyes do not meet hers as she slips off her dress and runs her fingers across his chest.

Her hands find either side of his face and she lifts his head. "Robb, I love you." She presses her forehead to his, her lips brushing lightly over his.

"And I love you." He smiles.

"Then trust me," she whispers against his skin, bumps rising on his arms despite the warmth of their room.

He doesn't speak, nor does he nod his head in agreement. Instead he bows his head to hers, kissing her deeply.

Gone is the man who feebly pressed his lips to hers with shaking hands and vacant eyes. He still fumbles a bit as he undoes her bodice, fingers sliding lightly over her waist and breasts. His breath is still shallow as he slips off his trousers, his hips already pushing against hers. But she aches for him – her stomach stirring in a way it hasn't before. She feels him enter her and she shudders, biting back his name on her lips.

Everything after is heat and pleasure and sweat and magic. They are no longer separate entities but one – winter and summer, north and south, the wolf and the rose.

"Husband," she says softly, one hand playing with the damp locks on his forehead, the other curled around his hand. She had called another that not so long ago, but the word feels different on her lips now – much like a song.

"Wife," he responds, a broad smile on his face as he brings her hand to his lips and kisses it.

She moves closer so she can press her lips to his again. Never has she felt so full, so warm, so whole. She falls asleep in her husband's arms with hope in her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, any and all feedback is appreciated. Thank you so much for reading and sending me kudos!


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